A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,21

a man who typically abstained, and because he wanted to watch her enjoy her victory.

He narrowly beat her in the second game and went down to defeat again in the third.

“I have earned my cheese,” he said, draining the dregs of his drink. “And enjoyable labor it was too. You have a head for probabilities.”

She collected the pegs and returned them to their compartment. “I thought I was merely lucky.”

“In the first and third games, you were lucky. In the second, you evidenced good mathematical skill, but alas, not quite good enough.”

She gathered up the cards and tidied them into a stack. “I never know when somebody is teasing me or making a jest at my expense. Were you insulting me just now?”

Good God, she was so earnest. Of course polite society had no idea what to do with her. “If I insulted you, I am no gentleman, am I?”

“If I am a lady, I give you the benefit of the doubt—up to a point. Ladies are gracious and kind. Nobody ever says why they are, but it’s expected of them.”

Not expected of us, but rather, expected of them. She did not see herself as a lady. She saw herself as a woman impersonating a lady.

“I do not see myself as a duke,” Nathaniel said slowly. “I am a man impersonating a duke. I do the best I can, but I often fail.”

Her ladyship gave him that intense, blue-eyed perusal that made him want to provoke her to smiling. Anything to give her a reprieve from the unrelenting seriousness that she wore like a widow’s black veils.

“You might consider receiving the occasional guest,” she said, putting the cards into a drawer. “Dukes entertain. The occasional smile might enhance your chances of pulling off this impersonation. I know several other dukes and can claim one as a brother. I have seen him both smile and entertain guests”—she closed the drawer and leaned closer—“at the same time. Dukes do.”

“Regardless of how dukes behave in the general case, I do not entertain.” Nor did Nathaniel quite know how to react to her teasing, if that’s what she was about. “The hour grows late and I should take my leave of you.” The brisk Yorkshire night breezes would slap some sense into him and snatch away useless fancies about earnest women who played a good game of cribbage.

Nathaniel rose and so did her ladyship.

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked, holding up his coat for him.

He slid his arms into the sleeves and faced her. “Because I was out for a ramble and saw your lamps were still lit.” In fact, he’d been debating this visit for three days. Her ladyship’s raised brow suggested she knew a bouncer when she heard one.

“I’ll walk you to the front door.”

Nathaniel did not relish the thought of vaulting over the balcony, but neither could he risk being discovered with her. “I would prefer not—”

“The staff has long since gone to bed,” she said. “Come along.”

He followed rather than argue, mostly because he wanted to see more of her house. The appointments were exquisite, the housekeeping ruthlessly thorough. Every mirrored sconce was polished to a gleaming shine, and not a single cobweb clung to the gilt of the picture frames or pier glasses. Even the wood floors bounced candlelight into a mellow sense of order and peace.

Not like Rothhaven Hall, where the maids were old enough to be Nathaniel’s grannies, and the footmen even more venerable.

“Your house wants flowers,” he said as they approached the front door.

“I haven’t a conservatory, Your Grace, and the garden has yet to yield much in the way of blooms. Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

Nathaniel waited for the words that would put a crimp on the whole excursion—you must come again sometime—but her ladyship remained with one hand on the door latch, her expression merely pleasant.

“My thanks as well,” he said, “and I’ll bid you a good evening.” He possessed himself of her free hand and bowed over it, but rather than allow that gesture to remain perfunctory, his tired, somewhat brandy-soaked brain instead noticed the hand he held.

Her nails were clean and neatly trimmed—no surprise there—but the pads of her fingers were rough, and minute scars crisscrossed her knuckles. A serious gash had healed at the base of her thumb, without benefit of stitches if the irregular scar was an indication.

“You see the evidence of picking oakum,” she said, “among other unladylike endeavors. I never go out without my gloves.”